


Everyone Hates the Yankees

by meggitymeg



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Baseball as a metaphor for life, F/M, Gaza, NSF Thurmont coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggitymeg/pseuds/meggitymeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh and Donna come to an understanding.</p><p>(Spoilers for ITSOTG 1&2, Memorial Day, Gaza, NSF Thurmont)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Hates the Yankees

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in October 2004, the day after the season six premiere, but even nine years later, the general sentiment remains the same. If you're a Yankees fan, you may want to leave now. ;)

The first thing that hits me when I regain consciousness is the pain.

Every part of my body hurts. My head is pounding. There's a weight on my chest, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to be trapped underneath a mid-sized elephant. 

Fleetingly, I think of Ferdinand – you know, the bull from the children's book, the one who liked to sit under a tree and pick flowers? I wonder if the elephant on my chest is really a bull, and if so, if he likes to pick flowers. It's only after I find myself trying to recall which flowers were Ferdinand's favorites that I realize that I must be under the influence of some heavy drugs.

The second thing I notice, after shaking the mental picture of me as Ferdinand’s picnic blanket, is Josh. 

Or, more accurately, the flickering of the television in the corner of the room catches my eye. I turn my head slightly, wincing from the throbbing that results from the small movement. What's with the high-speed channel surfing? And since when have I had a television in my bedroom? Panicking, I check out the room around me – well, as much as I can do so while keeping my head perfectly still. I'm in a hospital – that much is instantly clear – and I’m obviously hurt, but what _happened_ to me? And who, exactly, is watching my television? Or, more accurately, who is switching every five seconds between...CNN and ESPN? The only person I know that flips back and forth between those two channels with that level of rapidity is Josh. But there’s no way that he’s the one watching television in my hospital room...

Suddenly, all the memories come flooding back. 

_Gaza. Colin. Fitz. The explosion._

And then, _Josh_.

I remember waking up to bright lights and searing pain. 

I remember being told about the attack, and about the Congressmen - and about Admiral Fitzwallace. 

I remember biting back hysterical laughter at the sight of Colin and Josh in the same room. 

I remember Josh leaving the room, and then I remember suddenly not being able to breathe right, and then everything going blurry. 

I remember asking for Josh – and I remember seeing his face leaning over me, seeing the fear in his eyes as I lay there covered in wires and tubes. 

I remember telling him that I was scared. And then, nothing.

I remember waking up after the surgery, the second one, and I close my eyes against the overwhelming force of the emotions that accompany that memory. 

I remember fighting to open my eyes, and when I finally managed to do so, seeing Josh in front of me. 

_You’re still here_ , I mumbled. 

And he looked at me, with just the barest glimpse of a smile, and said, _Yeah. I’m still here._

I glance back at the television, which at the moment is showing a baseball game. Squinting, I can make out the name of the team on the uniform of the batter – it's the Red Sox, and they appear to be in Yankee Stadium. I turn my head just a fraction more to the left, just in time to hear Josh give a quiet cheer and pump his fist in the air. Why is Josh watching the Red Sox play the Yankees, though? He's a Mets fan, through and through. 

And, more importantly, why is he still here? Doesn't he have a country to run? I mean, aren't there going to be massive repercussions from what happened in Gaza – if Leo hasn’t convinced the President to bomb the whole region already?

I open my mouth to ask these questions, but what comes out is,

"I thought you were a Mets fan."

Immediately, Josh vaults out of his chair and over to my bed.

"You're awake!"

 _Way to state the obvious, Joshua_ , is what I think, but what I say is, "Yeah." Apparently he's not the only lousy conversationalist in the room at the moment.

"How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Of course you're in pain. You've just had heart surgery! Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

He pauses to catch his breath, and I jump in. "I'm fine, Josh. I hurt – a lot – but I’m okay."

He looks me in the eye. "You’re not 'fine,' Donna. I've been there. I know what it feels like. You don’t have to lie to me. I know it how much it hurts."

I look away. He’s right. He does know what I’m going through. Carl Leroy made sure of that.

Turning back to him, I change the subject. 

"You didn’t answer my question. Since when have you been a Red Sox fan?"

He glances back at the television. It's currently showing an ad for Volkswagen. "I went to Harvard, Donna. It's kind of hard _not_ to be a Sox fan when you're living in Boston."

"But doesn't that compromise your devotion to the Mets?" I ask, glad to be talking about something other than politics or medical procedures for a change.

"Not at all," he says, and I can tell that my feeble attempt at distraction has worked as he launches into an explanation. "The Sox and the Mets are in totally different leagues. They hardly ever play each other in regular season play, and it's not like either team frequently plays post-season games. Except that this year, it looks like the Sox might have a chance. They're posting some good numbers, offensively, and they're actually beating up on the Yankees pretty well at the moment."

He stops, and grins at me. "Have I lost you yet, Donnatella?"

"Hey!" I protest, offended. I just so happen to know a great deal about baseball, but Josh obviously doesn't know that. I open my mouth to tell him so, but then close it. This could be fun.

I consider my next words carefully. Adopting an innocent tone, I say, "You know, I've always been a big fan of the Atlanta Braves."

Josh's reaction doesn't let me down. His mouth drops open, and he yelps, "DONNA! You can't be a Braves fan! That’s just so...so...WRONG!" He looks accusingly at me. "It's because of some gomer, isn't it? You had a crush on some gomer in a Braves uniform, and now you’re a Braves fan."

Glaring at him, I retort, "That's where you're wrong, Joshua. I'm not a Braves fan because of some crush on one of their players. Do you really think I'm _that_ pathetic?"

He immediately looks contrite. "Of course not, Donna. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He takes my hand, and squeezes it. "But still...the Braves? Why the Braves? Why not, well, ANY other team in major league baseball? Okay, maybe not the Yankees, but any other team?"

I bite my lip, wondering how much to tell him. _Oh, what the hell_ , I think. It's been a long enough time that I can look back on the whole thing and laugh about it. Maybe. I hope so, anyway. I look away from where our hands are lying on the bed, still joined, and say, "My ex-boyfriend was from Cleveland."

Josh wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "What's that got to do with you being a life-long Braves fan?"

I blush. "Well, I was exaggerating a bit. By 'always,' I really meant more like 'since I found out that my boyfriend was cheating on me.'"

"I still don’t get it."

I'm feeling kind of embarrassed, but I continue. "Rich and I met at school in Madison, but he'd grown up in Ohio, in Cleveland. He was a HUGE Indians fan - and the thing about Rich is that he's big on holding grudges, especially about sports."

Josh interrupts me. "Okay, so, Dr. Freeride likes to win. Which doesn't explain why he's an Indians fan, but whatever. What does this have to do with you pledging your allegiance to the Braves?"

I'm beginning to wish I'd never started this conversation. "Josh, think back over the last fifteen years or so. Think about the Braves, and how many titles they've won."

"Do I really *have* to, Donna?" he whines. I glare at him, and he relents. "Okay, okay. They started getting good again in '91 – that was the Cinderella season. They played post-season series with the Twins, and the Pirates, but they didn't win the World Series until '95, when they played the Indians – Donna! Are you telling me that you became a Braves fan because Freeride had a grudge against the team?"

I can't help but laugh at the expression on his face, which is an interesting mixture of horrified disgust and admiration. Bad move. My chest feels like it's on fire, and my reaction must have been plain on my face, because Josh immediately starts looking around wildly for the call button. He doesn't let go of my hand, though. Even through the pain in my chest, I can feel the warmth of his hand on mine.

"Josh..." I manage to croak, and although my scratchy voice is barely audible even to my own ears, somehow Josh hears me and turns back to the bed. "It's okay," I tell him, and raise my right hand slightly to show him the button that controls the morphine, which I've just given a good long press. 

He sighs in relief, then immediately looks guilty.

"This is my fault. I shouldn't have made you talk to me."

I look directly into his eyes. "Not your fault," I say, and we both know that I'm not just talking about the recent conversation. He nods, but his eyes are still haunted. 

"Not your fault," I repeat, and squeeze his hand. I can feel the morphine start to kick in, and the edges of my sight start to blur. But there's something I have to say, and I fight off the drowsiness and hope that Josh will understand.

"Everyone hates the Yankees."

Josh leans closer to catch my words. "What do you mean?"

I'm slipping under, but I have to make him understand. I'm not going to let yet another opportunity pass us by. "The Mets hate the Yankees. The Sox do, too. And the Braves. Everyone hates the Yankees."

He looks at me, confused. Frustrated, I search for some way to make him understand. To say that, yeah, I deliberately chose to root for the team that Rich hated – it was my small way of sticking it to him, even if he didn't actually have any idea I was doing it – but that I would never do the same to Josh. That even if we come from different places and have different thoughts and opinions, we'll still get along, because we have the same basic goals and priorities – just like the Mets and the Braves and the Sox, who are united in their hatred for the Yankees. 

Giving up, I let the morphine take over. Just before I fall asleep, I look up at Josh, and the expression on his face shows me that he _does_ get it, that he knows what I tried – and failed – to put into words. And as I drift into unconsciousness, still holding Josh's hand, I hear him whisper, "Maybe the Braves aren’t so bad, after all."


End file.
